


Applied Pressure

by SnugglePuppyBoi



Category: Original Work
Genre: Consentacles, Crying, Demons, Mild Bad BDSM Etiquette, Mild Degradation/Humiliation Kink, Mild S&M, Or Tendriljob, Other, Tentacles, Teratophilia, hand?job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:07:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24298573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnugglePuppyBoi/pseuds/SnugglePuppyBoi
Summary: For as long as he can remember, Henry has been tormented by a demon that only appears when he closes his eyes for more than a few seconds. That doesn't bother him. But lately, he's been struggling with a growing attraction to his demon and the fact that he clearly isn't as asexual as previously thought.That very much does bother him.
Relationships: Original Male Character(s)/Original Non-Binary Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 68





	Applied Pressure

**Author's Note:**

> Everything that might need a content warning is in the tags, so please be mindful of them.

Sleep weaves a siren song over Henry, teasing and tempting even while he does his damnedest to ignore its call, eyes glued to the screen of his phone while a video he only half-remembers the beginning of plays. A glance at the clock in the corner tells him it's three am. Soon he'll have to go to sleep—he's played this game and lost more times than he can count—but he's desperate to prolong it as late as possible.

He's not scared of sleeping. Usually, it takes him a little longer than he'd like to fall asleep regardless of how tired he is, but he sleeps soundly through the night and can't remember the last time he'd had a nightmare. Things like dying in his sleep or being mistaken for dead and buried alive have never been thoughts that concern him, though he's met a few people who do worry about those and finds an odd sort of kinship with them. They might not understand his situation, but they do understand dreading closing their eyes for the night. It's reassuring to know they share the emotion, even if no one understands what he's been going through his entire life.

Unless, of course, Henry isn't the only one haunted by his particular demon. Or his particular type of demon. Which would make sense. He can't imagine he's the only person unfortunate enough to have a monster.

The video comes to an end and he switches to something else. A YouTube documentary about some metal band he's never heard of. He doesn't really care about the contents, only that the music is loud and jarring and fights off the urge to sleep. Blooming in his temples is a familiar pain, the warnings of a sleep deprivation-induced headache. His eyelids are heavy, his eyes uncomfortably warm. He wants to go to sleep already, but he wants to avoid setting his demon free even more.

He's had the demon for as long as he can remember and the rules have always been the same. When he closes his eyes for more than a few seconds, his demon comes. Technically there's nothing particularly awful that his demon does: mostly taunting him, sometimes touching him, always taking clear pleasure in his discomfort. Henry's gone through phases on how he feels about it all. If he goes as far back into his memory as he can, he remembers being scared of them, but he also remembers trying to make friends with his demon a few years later. Sometimes his demon is awful and scary and sometimes they're the only constant in Henry's life, the only thing he can be 100% sure of at the end of the day.

And now? Now...

Now he dreads their interactions for reasons that have nothing to do with being scared of monsters. Fear still plays a part in it, but it's fear of his secret being discovered.

He thinks he's in love with his demon and if they figure that out, what's stopping them for leaving for good? They like when he's terrified, not when he's trying not to implode because his preternatural crush is whispering in his ear. It's only a matter of time before they catch on, but he's trying to savor the time he has left. Eventually, his demon will read the racing of his heart or a hitch in his breathing as something other than terror and then he'll never see them again.

Well, hear them or feel them again. He's never seen them. Henry doesn't know if demons even have an actual physical form, though he wouldn't be surprised if they did because his has definitely left awkward to explain claw marks and bruises in the past. But ghosts didn't have bodies and they did that kind of thing in horror movies all the time, so he's not really sure. Finding reliable information about demons is really, really difficult.

It's getting harder to stay awake. The current game plan is to get as tired as possible so that he falls asleep as soon as possible. Knowing his body, it'll still take at least twenty minutes, but that's only twenty minutes of having to act like he's scared of his demon still and not like he's getting addicted to the feel of rough, burning hands on him.

(An addiction that is increasingly problematic because for years he'd been sure he was asexual and now he's very, very aware he is not. And demon or not, it feels wrong to get off to something when the other person and/or malevolent entity isn't consenting to it. The ethics of the entire situation confuse him.)

Half-way through the documentary, he knows he won't make it to the end. Blinking has become a dangerous process. Every time he closes his eyes they stay closed a little longer than before, just brushing against the time limit he knows will summon his demon to him. Music had been a bad idea. Metal wasn't supposed to be soothing, was it? He hardly listened to it, so he always thought it would be unpleasant enough to work, but he's actually enjoying the songs playing every so often.

Henry adds the documentary to his watch later playlist, curious if he'll like it when he's not fighting off sleep, and pauses the video. He could try to find something else or he could just get this over with. Work later today is going to be absolute hell as it is. He doesn't think he'll survive many more post-dawn all-nighters.

Fuck. Alright. He's going to go to sleep. Putting his phone aside, he drags the covers up over his head before closing his eyes and waiting.

He counts back from ten.

10...

9...

8...

7...

6...

5...

4...

3...

2...

"You should know better, Henry," his demon chides, one pointed claw gently tracing a tear track down his cheek. "Only children hide under the covers."

"H-hello," he whispers. His voice is small in the silent expanse of his bedroom. He always says hello, has for as long as he can remember. He wants to say something more but is too scared of what might come out of his mouth to.

"Hello." His demon's voice is mocking, dripping with faux affection. Henry's heart skips a beat. It doesn't matter if he knows they're just taunting him; hearing his crush say something even vaguely affectionate towards him makes his heart and stomach go crazy. "How long do you think until you fall asleep, Henry? How much fun will we have tonight?"

Swallowing hard, he finds his throat dry and scratchy. He should have gotten water. It might have woken him up a little, too, but if he drank too much and woke up to go pee he'd have to see his demon twice in a night.

He manages to croak out, "I don't know." His demon is still touching him, still dragging sharp claws down his skin, down his cheek, the side of his throat, his upper chest. It's embarrassing how much he enjoys it. He bites his lip to keep back a whimper, sending silent prayers up to whoever's listening that he's coming off as terrified, not aroused.

The claws stop just under his clavicle, digging in harder. "If I had to guess," his demon says, voice upbeat, "we have about thirty minutes. More if I draw this out a little." The claws dig in even harder, threatening to break skin, and there's nothing he can do to keep the whimper at bay now. Dragging their hand back, the pinpoints of pressure lessen and his demon switches to stroking the skin where his claws had been moments before. "But even then, we'll only have an hour together. It's up to you. What shall we do?"

His demon often leaves things like this up to him. Henry thinks it's some sort of strangely effective torture technique. Even back when he clearly favored one option over the other—something that hasn't happened since his crush began—he'd struggled to come to a decision. Having to make any decision at all always left him with option paralysis.

Trying to focus on anything else but the fingers stroking his skin, Henry whispers, "I have work in the morning."

"Is that an answer?"

"N-no. Sorry." Henry takes a shaky breath. "I... Can I ask a question first?"

His demon chuckles. "Of course, Henry."

Even before he asks it, he knows it's a mistake. "How... how nice are you going to be?"

It's a stupid question. As far as he knows, demons aren't well known for being nice and his, in particular, is only nice insofar as to be uniquely cruel. He's not even sure what answer he wants them to give.

"How nice will I be..." His demon hums. "How about we make it a game? I won't tell you which one is which and if you choose what I think you will, I won't be very nice, but if you choose what I think you won't, I'll surprise you."

Henry is nodding his ascent even while his anxiety is ramping up to rival his growing arousal. It's all the worse because he knows he wants either option. Maybe it's years of conditioning, but he likes the level of cruelty he knows he can expect from his demon. He can't remember the last time it had crossed into the realm of too much. It's usually just enough to push his boundaries and leave mild injuries that he obsesses over the next day, pressing on them to relive the memory of his demon touching him, hurting him.

It's incredibly fucked up, honestly, but it's where he's at and he doesn't see it changing anytime soon.

"I..." He licks his lips, breath stuttering when his tongue touches something other than himself or the blanket. He has no idea what body part he's just licked, partly because he has no idea what his demon actually looks like. Sometimes it seems like they're humanoid, but other times they're decidedly not and that can change from second to second.

A hand finds its way to his hair, sinking into wiry curls and scratching just a bit too hard at his scalp. It stings, but it feels good too. "Yes, Henry?"

"Longer," he says, finally.

"You'll be worn out in the morning, won't you?" they coo. "It's been months since I was able to visit you at work. I'm looking forward to it."

Another whimper. When his demon speaks to him, he can feel breath ghosting across the left side of his face, so he turns away to the right, embarrassed. A hard tug of his hair has his head snapping back in his demon's direction with a pained gasp. The only thing that keeps his eyes from flying open is that he's been through this before and opening his eyes always leaves his demon very, very disappointed with him. And not in the way he likes.

(God, this really is a problem.)

His demon's voice is pure ice, a sharp contrast to the heat of their skin against his. "Don't be rude, Henry."

Cringing into his pillow, he fights the urge to turn his head again. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude."

A pause, before his demon is chuckling again, the grip on his hair relaxing. "I know you didn't. You're such a sweet boy, aren't you, Henry? So unfortunate to end up with me."

Not unfortunate, but he can't exactly say that. He probably shouldn't be, but Henry is incredibly grateful that, by some yet unknown to him twist of fate, he ended up saddled with a demon. A demon that's switched to lovingly stroking his hair in the way they'd sometimes do when he was still a child and had been pushed from moderate discomfort and fear to outright panic. His demon has always been odd in that way. They want Henry to be upset, but only to a point.

Probably not 'good criteria for a romantic partner' but maybe that's why they're the only person Henry's ever been romantically or sexually interested in. No one else has ever taken pleasure in tormenting him.

"Which did I pick?"

"Hmm?"

His demon's hum is nearly a growl, low, with an edge of threat to it that makes heat curl in the pit of Henry's stomach. His words falter for a moment, but he pushes on with, "Did I pick you being not nice or surprising?"

"And why would I tell you that?"

Oh. 

Opening and closing his mouth a few times, he tries to come up with something to say. He should have expected this, honestly. They had said they wouldn't tell him which was which, but he'd assumed that meant they wouldn't tell him beforehand, not that they wouldn't tell him at all.

"I..." He blinks without opening his eyes, before sighing. "I don't know why I thought you would."  
His demon pats his head a few times before removing their hand. Without them touching him, he feels exposed and vulnerable, tensing all over at the expectation of being touched somewhere but not knowing where or how or when.

"As much fun as it would be to keep you guessing, I'm sure you're a clever enough boy to figure it out yourself."

"Okay," Henry says, meekly. A touch against his stomach, beneath his shirt, has him curling inward at the expectation for pain. His stomach has more scars than the rest of him. At one point he'd begged his demon to leave the bulk of his injuries in less visible places and they'd favored his stomach ever since.

The touch is gentle, though, without the expected sharpness. Sometimes it's like that. Part of tormenting him, making it so he never knows what to expect. Which in turn increases the dread and anticipation of figuring out what his demon has in store for him.

A dread and anticipation that are making a certain part of him very uncomfortable right now and he really hopes they don't lay on him like they sometimes do because "I have a boner but it's just a fear boner" doesn't seem like a lie he can sell right now.

"It's been a while since we've played a sharing game, isn't it?"

"I... what?" He asks the question without really meaning to. He knows what sharing games mean in this context—he'd been the one to come up with the term back when he'd tried to befriend his demon as a child—but it really has been so long that it feels completely out of place to think about them again.

His demon pats his stomach, hard. It doesn't hurt, but the sound of flesh striking flesh is a gunshot in the dark of the room. "A sharing game," they repeat. "You used to like them. We're going to play one again."

"O-okay."

Sharing games were simple. They just traded facts about themselves or things important to them back and forth until one of them got tired of it (usually his demon) or one of them ran out of things to say (usually him). 

Or one of them ran out of the ability to say things.

(Also usually him).

It was how he'd learned as much about his demon as he had, which wasn't much but more than he would have known otherwise. It's how he knows that his demon is a 'they' and that they have a name, just not one Henry can ever hope to even come close to reproducing, among other things. The sharing games were a little unfair, honestly, because the only one that got new information was his demon. His demon seemed to always know what he had to say before he said it with very few exceptions. Even when they aren't present physically, they're there watching him.

"Why don't you go first, Henry?" A long, spindly finger presses down on the space between two ribs with a deep, almost reassuring pressure. Henry relaxes into it, sighing under his breath.

"Um..." He tries to come up with something to say. All of the things that jump immediately to mind are the same things he definitely should not say. "There's a new girl working at the store. Her name is Marie."

"And do you like her?"

"Yeah, I guess so. She seems nice." On the opposite side of his ribs, another finger presses down on the same place as the first. "She has a pretty cute Instagram account for her cats."

His demon chuckles. The pressure between his ribs increases a little.

"Are you planning on making friends with her?"

"Uh... maybe? I don't usually hang out with coworkers that much."

"You don't 'hang out' with anyone that much," they point out, with obvious amusement. "Except me. Should I feel special?"

Henry feels his face heat up and squirms, stopping when the pressure between his ribs increases again, this time hard enough to get a gasp from him. He'll have bruises there in the morning. Despite the hurt it causes, it does work to settle him somewhat.

"I... I mean," he swallows, trying to focus on his demon's fingers pressing into him, on the little bit of calm that the feeling elicits. "I don't..."

"' _I... I mean. I don't..._ '" Even after an entire lifetime, it's eerie to hear his demon parrot his words back to him in a perfect imitation of his own voice. Embarrassing, too. His voice always sounds so shy and nervous, so childish, around his demon. The relatively recent development of his attraction towards them has only made that worse. "Finish your sentence before you start a new one, Henry."

Shifting, he squeezes his legs together and instantly regrets it when it just brings his mind even more to his erection.

Is there an admonishment kink? There has to be one, right?

"It's not like I try to... to do this. I can't make you not show up."

"You can't," his demon says, happily. "It's inevitable. Which makes it a little pathetic that you still try. Or did you just take a sudden interest in metal bands today?"

"I..." Words wither in his throat. He knows his demon watches him, but that doesn't make it feel any less invasive when they outright say it. "Why were you watching me?"

"My turn to share. It gets very boring being tethered to a human. You're not my only entertainment, but you are my favorite."

God, if that doesn't give him a little burst of pride. He mumbles "Thank you," not knowing what else to say and not wanting to be rude after being given a compliment, regardless of the implication that it isn't that much of a compliment in the first place.

"You're welcome." His demon moves their fingers up a space, leaving aching flesh behind. They aren't pressing down as hard this time, though Henry hopes that changes. "Any questions? Or do you want to move on?"

Part of him wants to ask them to press harder, to give him something to focus on and unjumble his thoughts a little. He doesn't. "What else do you do? Other than watching me."

His demon hums in contemplation. "Keep up-to-date on things. Human things, non-human things. I have people I speak to, things to read. Not terribly different from what you do outside of work."

"I know sometimes, uh..." He wets his lips again. There's no brush of anything against his tongue this time. "Sometimes you move things around? In the house."

When he was younger and still living with his parents, the moving things around usually took the form of misplacing things to get him in trouble or, very rarely, helping him find lost items. That may have been lost because of his demon in the first place. He remembers having a panic attack over a lost flash drive around the time he was in high school and getting it chucked at his head. That bruise, at least, had been easy to explain. It wasn't unusual for him to hurt himself during panic attacks.

"I do. Does that bother you?"

A third hand circles around his left wrist, squeezing tight enough for Henry to feel like his bones shift. His fingers twitch, but he doesn't try to pull away. It's not as nice as the pressure between his ribs, but it's still steadying.

Another sigh escapes his throat.

His demon is being oddly nice tonight. Usually, the only times he gets things like this for extended periods, things that relieve his stress levels, are after they've done everything they can to elevate those stress levels first. He's lost track and time, but it's making him dangerously sleepy. He must have chosen the surprising option.

"Sometimes. I'm not neat, but I like things to be in certain places." His words are starting to slur together at the edges. "Is that why you do it?"

"Sometimes. It's not time to go to sleep yet, Henry. Do I need to wake you up?"

"Not… not yet." Waking him up is always a little risky because sometimes it makes him open his eyes. "How much longer?"

"We still have some time. I'll tell you when you can sleep."

His brain to mouth filter must be broken because he nods and mumbles, "You're being nice," before he can stop himself. His demon only laughs.

"Am I? We can't have that, can we? My reputation will suffer."

They make no move to actually do anything, though, so Henry just smiles a nervous smile and tries to actually think about thoughts before they tumble out of his damn mouth.

It takes a little bit of courage to tell them, "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone." The laughter he gets in response, bathing his face in breath that smells like rust and something he's only ever smelled on his demon and can only be described as inhuman, is well worth it. Another hand finds just above his right hip bone, digging fingers into the space there. He hopes that the abortive little thrust of his hips at being touched so low on his body is mistaken as a flinch.

"I'll have to hold you to that. Your turn."

A thought he's played around with in the past but feels relevant at the moment occurs to him. "I think I want to get a weighted blanket."

"I think you would like it if you did. You respond well to that sort of thing. Is your hand numb?"  
He tries to shake his head but it ends up more a slow roll from side to side. He flexes his fingers. "Not really."

His demon hums. The grip on his wrist lessens before increasing again, massaging the area. It's slow and methodical and Henry finds himself breathing along with it, inhaling on the increases and exhaling on the decreases. "Tell me if that changes. You get drunk on pressure very easily. A weighted blanket would help with your panic attacks."

"Drunk on pressure?" Something taps his nose and he wrinkles it but doesn't have the will to turn his head away from it. "How do you mean?"

"Like you are right now. It's always been an easy way to redirect your fear to something more convenient."

"Is that what you're doing now? Redirecting it to something more... convenient?"

"Of course."

That confuses Henry. He has the urge to open his eyes, to look at his demon and try to determine why tonight would be a night when his fear needs to be redirected, but he doesn't. If he opened them, he wouldn't see anything and his demon's hands on him would disappear.

"But I haven't been that upset tonight."

"That's not the only reason to redirect. For instance," his demon leans in closer, voice a hot whisper in his ear. Lips brush his skin. "Sometimes I might want to redirect before we get to the fun part."  
All the points of pressure—the hold on his wrist, the fingers digging between his ribs and above his hip bone—vanish. Almost instantly Henry's anxiety ratchets up higher than before he'd closed his eyes. The well of calmness that had built up, what his demon had called drunkenness, is washed away by a sudden, violent tide, leaving him sober and wide awake. Henry's heart rabbits out of control in his chest.

"You're not being nice," he whispers.

His demon's voice echoes around him, not originating in any one place. "I don't recall ever saying I would be. Is it time for me to share, Henry? I'm very much looking forward to it."

Everything in Henry wants to say no, wants to draw out the conversation as long as possible to avoid whatever is coming. But there's no chance he can keep up the topic of weighted blankets long enough to fall asleep, especially not with anticipation sending shock waves through his body.

The words, "It's your turn," leave his mouth like he's swallowing poison.

He'd made the wrong choice when he'd chosen a longer conversation after all, hadn't he?

It's rare to hear so much giddiness in his demon's voice when he's not crying or bleeding, though Henry feels like there's a decent chance of both in his near future. Crying especially. He's always been an easy crier when it comes to stress and can feel a familiar stinging wetness gathering in the corners of his eyes.

"My sense of smell is about the same as yours," his demon says, "but my sense of taste makes up for it. It's strong enough to essentially function the same way. All parts of my body can taste and I can taste things from very, very far away, though I prefer to actually touch things to taste them."

There's a pregnant pause while his demon waits for him to respond and he falters, unsure where this is going but knowing he has to play along.

"Is that... uh, why sometimes you just... touch me?"

"Such a clever boy. Yes, it is. It's a more efficient way to eat your fear. Helpful to pick up on other emotions, too."

"O-oh?"

"Hmm." His demon's voice is starting to get disorienting, surrounding him, bouncing off the walls, overlapping itself at the edges. "I have a question since you've been so clever tonight. Do you think a creature that's existed for longer than humanity has been a possibility can't taste just how hard you are right now?"

A flight instinct triggers before his brain has even fully processed the words and he tries to jump up in bed only to be forced back down by more hands than he can count. Struggling against them is useless. His demon is so much stronger than he could ever hope to be. The only way to get free would be to—

"If you open your eyes right now, I'll be very upset, Henry," his demon says, an undercurrent to their voice that has him cowering away. "I've been able to taste it on you for months now. And I've been very patient with you, but this is getting ridiculous."

It's all too much and he's crying now, whimpering and struggling to control his increasingly erratic breathing as excuses and apologies and promises to stop tumble stream-of-consciousness from his mouth. Because this is the worst-case scenario, this is the moment where his demon decides they have better people to torment, that it's not worth it to stay with Henry. And he's saying all of this between the apologies and excuses and whimpers, saying all of it because he's completely fucked and maybe if he just proves to them that he can still be a source of upset that there's a small chance that they'll stay.

"Relax," his demon hisses, removing their hands and replacing them with their body, pressed against his bare skin as if his clothing and blanket don't exist. Henry tries to make space between them and his erection that, despite his state of panic, isn't doing much in the way of flagging. It doesn't work. His demon only puts more weight on him. "Henry, I need you to relax. I'm not angry with you. Be a good boy and breathe for me. You taste awful right now. I need you to breathe so you can taste better. You can do that for me, can't you? Be a good boy, Henry."

The combination of pressure and words helps somewhat, stopping Henry's babbling, leaving him to whimper as he tries to follow their instructions and focus on his breathing. His mind latches onto the instruction to be good. Thoughts still a jumbled mess, all he can think is that if he is good, they might stay. He wants them to stay.

He must have said so out loud, because he hears his demon sigh and tell him, "I'm not leaving, Henry. To be perfectly clear, until you die I can't leave. Get that thought out of your strange little head. You're being a very good boy, Henry. You're breathing so good for me. You should be proud."

He doesn't feel like he should, but he also wants to believe them. He nods, the movement causing his nose to come into contact with an unknown part of his demon's body. Breathing. He focuses on his breathing and slowly feels the feeling of panic yield to an equal amount of dread.

So it's not a secret.

"Good boy, Henry," his demon is saying, "I should have expected you would take this worse than I thought, shouldn't I? Such a flighty creature. Are you ready to talk now?"

He's not. "Not really."

"Too bad. You're capable of talking, so we're talking." Henry really doesn't want to talk, but it also doesn't seem like Henry is being given any choice in the matter. "You taste so much better now, you know. Now, let's get some things clear so we don't have a repeat of just now: I cannot leave you until you die. I would have already killed you if you were too annoying to remain tethered to. If I could leave you, sexual attraction towards me wouldn't be a reason to do so."

"But I, you won't be able to—"

"To what, Henry? Upset you? Don't insult me by saying I can't hunt for myself, especially with someone who's as easy prey as you." Breathing is starting to take effort not just from his attempts to slow it down, but because of the crushing pressure of his demon on top of him. "The past few months and tonight especially are proof that I can manage just fine. If anything, this makes my job easier."

His demon's voice is their usual mixture of steel and silk, which helps ease Henry's distress just a little. "So it's... fine?"

"Of course it's fine, Henry." They laugh, the sound coiling around Henry like smoke. "Humans lusting after demons is nothing new, though it rarely happens to my kind. It's flattering, really, though I suppose it's because you don't know what I look like."

"That's not true," he mutters, uncomfortable with the implication that his attraction to his demon is so shallow. He's not about to call it love, but it's tied too strongly to their personality and treatment of him to come down just to appearance. Besides, Henry's known them his entire life. He's probably spent more time with them than with anyone else in the world. "I would... even if I could see you I would, uh, like you."

"Like me," his demon says, amused. "Very endearing to be a human's middle school love confession, but a little sad on your part that out of everyone you could choose, I'm your first."

Henry can't even squirm, trapped between his bed and his demon. "I just mean that—"

Interrupting him, they ask, "Tell me, Henry, if tonight could end any way you wanted, what would happen?"

"I..." What would happen? It's already gone better than expected and Henry can't really ask for much more. "I just want to see you tomorrow night."

"Unimaginative," his demon sighs. "We've been over that I'll be seeing you tomorrow and there's not much you can do about it. I'll likely be seeing you even sooner, in fact. I can't imagine you won't nod off during work."

"Yeah, p-probably."

"I'll give you a suggestion, Henry." The weight on his lower body lifts up enough for something to slither snake-like in between them, sinking immaterial through Henry's pajama pants and curling in his pubic hair. Henry's cock twitches. "I'll help you get off tonight and then you go to sleep."

Sure that he must have heard them incorrectly or misunderstood, he replays the sentence twice in his head. When he can only come to the same conclusion, he whines at the jolt of pleasure that thinking about those words causes.

Finally, he asks, "Why?"

"As much as I've been enjoying the taste of sexual frustration, I can eat more than fear and distress." The thing coiled in his pubic hair slips down to brush against the top of his shaft. "Besides, I'm curious. I can count on your fingers how many times I've seen you touch yourself."

Heart having leaped into permanent residence in his throat, Henry still struggles to make sense of what's happening. "Why are you curious about that?"

"I'm not one to find humans attractive, but there's something very pleasing about you, Henry. I like your asymmetry. You're quite odd-looking by human standards, aren't you? Pair that with how pathetic you look when you come and..." his demon trails off with a low chuckle. "It makes me very curious. I wonder if I'll like it as much as I did two months ago. You were thinking about me, weren't you?"

The last time Henry had masturbated comes readily to mind: sitting on a towel on the floor of his bathroom while he listened to water run into the bathtub, warmth and moisture filling the air, back pressed against the cool wood of the door as he tried to get through the act without letting his eyes stay closed for longer than a few seconds. It hadn't taken that long despite how unnatural it felt to keep his eyes open, thanks in no small part to his paranoia/arousal at the fact his demon could be watching. And they had been. Watching him while he thought about them.

Before he can stop himself, he's rolling his hips, the small amount of space to allow the thing in between them also allowing him the room to grind his cock against his demon's body. He only does one before the thing is pushing his hips back down by pressing hard against his pubic bone. It hurts and Henry gasps, eyelids fluttering.

"If you'd rather rut against me like you're in heat, we can always end the night like that," his demon is saying, casually. "Or we could do something a little more interactive. Or we could skip dealing with your little problem and you can go to sleep after all. It's up to you, Henry, but you have to tell me which one you want."

"That's..." Cruel. Making Henry make that kind of decision when he still isn't sure this isn't going to end with him choosing something and his demon mocking him for thinking something sexual might actually happen between them. And as much as a part of him would definitely get off on that, he'd also rather actually get off somehow. Meekly, he says, "Uh... interactive. But, uh, what is... that?"

He shifts his hips a little, pushing back against the thing pushing down on his pubic bone to illustrate what he means by 'that'.

"A tendril," his demon says. Said tendril lets go of his pubic hair and stops holding him into place, instead wrapping in a loose coil around Henry's cock. Henry inhales sharply. "Usually I make them into more familiar appendages for you, but you don't seem like the sort of human that would be opposed to them. I'm sure part of your newfound sexual awakening will include you getting very well acquainted with tentacle porn."

The condescension in their tone is almost as good as the slow slide of their tendril around him. The tendril itself is smooth and soft, flesh pliable while still obviously being capable of exerting serious strength as it had seconds ago. The end of it stretches to the top of his cock, swiping away some of the copious pre-cum gathered there, and then the entirety of it goes slippery and wet, as if in imitation.

It feels good and Henry groans, trying to thrust up into it only for the tendrils to move along with him, denying him the friction he's seeking out. A hand grabs his hip, holding it still.

"Remember, Henry," his demon chides, voice deceptively gentle, "You picked something interactive, not rutting against me like you're in heat. I'd like this to take more than a minute, but I can see that look on your face already. You don't get to move yet."

Biting his lip, Henry nods. Keeping from thrusting is difficult, especially when he's been hard for however long it's been. And the fact that no one's ever touched him like this and now that someone is, it's someone that he really, really wants to do so.

More tendrils creep around him, wrapping around his thighs, wriggling under his back to curl around his stomach and chest, and coiling around his arms and throat. The part of Henry's brain capable of having non-horny thoughts (a part of his brain getting smaller by the second) can't help but wonder at how his demon seems to have complete control on what extent they want to manifest into reality and what extent they want to ignore it altogether. They can sink through his bedding and clothing as if nothing is there but at the same time make very real, very physical contact with him.

One of the tendrils around his chest lays just beneath his nipples and vibrates for a moment before Henry can feel smaller tendrils branching off for it like it's growing tiny, boneless fingers. That thought isn't the most comforting, but the way those miniature tendrils move to caress his nipples—slow, undulating movements that focus in on his areola—drives that thought right out of his head with a whimper.

In none of his previous masturbatory sessions had he given any attention to his nipples, but he's suddenly very happy that his demon is.

"Are you going to cry?" his demon asks, excitement heavy in their voice, and Henry realizes that tears are gathering in the corners of his eyes. That isn't terribly surprising but is mortifying. "I was hoping you would. I wonder if I can make you cry more than when you do this alone?"

Henry doesn't have an answer to that and any attempts he could make would likely end with him just embarrassing himself, so he doesn't. Some of the mini tendrils at his nipple form a loose circle around it before shifting and extending. Before Henry can even think of asking what they're doing, there's a sudden wetness and suction from within the circle as they form a mouth. With many sharp teeth, he discovers, when a hard bite has him trying to buck off the bed only to be held into place by the tendrils wrapped around him.

"I thought about this going different ways," his demon is saying, "You certainly gave me plenty of time to think about it. This isn't what I had planned, but I don't have the patience to handhold you through begging for what you want, so this will have to do." The tendril around Henry's cock squeezes a little tighter. "We can always save that for another night. I'd suggest one where you don't have work in the morning, but it doesn't much affect me either way."

The idea of having to verbalize asking for any of the things Henry wants is both terrifying and thrilling. Terrifying because oh god why? and thrilling because 'handholding' seems like the polite way of saying 'forcing' and...

Henry's increasingly labored breathing becomes a low keening in the back of his throat. He would hate it and love it in equal measures.

"Do you like that idea? I have others. I'll admit that this is a new opportunity for me, but even before I was tethered to you I considered how to utilize sex for torment. But I have picky tastes. To think that the first suitable human I find is perfect for it."

Perfect. Even if it was just perfect for a new feeding technique, his demon thought he was perfect. He's making a steady stream of humiliating sounds that he knows he won't be able to stop replaying in his head in the morning, held immobile by tendrils that bind and caress and toy with him, hyper-focused by the teeth and tongue laving at his nipple and the quickening rhythm of the one around his cock. His demon's earlier words about him looking pathetic whisper in his mind and he knows if he'd looked pathetic then, he must look a whole new level of pitiful now.

Perfect and pathetic. Two words that, when used together, perfectly described how he wanted to be viewed sexually.

His demon has kept up a steady stream of commentary, most of which he's only been half-listening to. A hard shove in the stomach by one of the tendrils has him both wheezing from the impact and refocusing on them.

"Henry," his demon sing-songs, "Are you ignoring me? That's not very polite. The only reason I'm not shoved down your throat right now is so you can talk to me, you know. Or is this your way of wanting that to change?"

The thought is just barely more horrifying than tempting—if Henry is going to have something of theirs in his mouth, he'd rather it start more gently than that (for the first time, at least)—and has him quickly shaking his head.

"I, uh, aah—" He breaks off into a moan. "No?"

His demon hums. "Maybe some other time." A tendril or tongue or both flicks across Henry's lips before disappearing. If Henry has a very strong desire to chase after it with his own tongue, he doesn't act on it. The tendril around his cock squeezes even tighter, almost painful now, and its movements become faster and less fluid. "I think it's time for you to—"

Before they can finish their sentence, Henry is coming with a high-pitched, strangled noise, body tensing and shut eyes squeezing tight. The orgasm itself is quick and violent, a blinding, almost painful peak of pleasure that ends with him gasping as he tries to regain his breathing. He can't see it but can feel the mess he's made inside his pajama pants. Exhaustion hits him hard enough that he's sure whichever biological clock is in control of his circadian rhythm is going to develop bruises. No chance in hell will he be getting up to clean that.

He's too busy trying to remember how to be a functioning human being to notice how his demon has fallen silent until they let out a long, loud sigh.

"Really, Henry?" The disappointment in their voice only sends pleasant shivers down his spine. A tendril comes up to swipe at his cheek. Wetness spreads as his tears are wiped away. Oh. He must have cried after all. "You couldn't even wait until the end of my sentence?"

"'M sorry." He means it, though the slur of his speech is too content to convey the emotion.

The tendrils start to slip away, leaving him alone on his bed with only his demon's voice for company. He's not sure how long that company will last at the rate he can feel sleep falling over him.

His demon sighs again. "I suppose we can work on that. Good night, Henry."

"G'night."

There's a gap in his memory where any sort of rest should go. One moment he's telling his demon good night and the next the sun is shining in his eyes through the too sheer lace curtains his mother had bought him. When he rolls over, the bedside clock reads less than five minutes until his alarm goes off and he needs to get ready for work.

He doesn't feel the slightest bit bad about calling in sick to work that day. He plans to spend the day catching up on sleep and trying to figure out if earlier had counted as not nice or surprising.

Henry has a feeling it's both.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd really love feedback on this if you have it. Again, thank you for reading. I was pretty nervous to post this.


End file.
